


Unfinished Work

by Phoxphyre



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Artist Simon Snow, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-it Notes, Shakespeare, Slow Burn, Software Development
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:48:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22887322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoxphyre/pseuds/Phoxphyre
Summary: Simon Snow had a destiny.He was supposed to take the art world by storm--or at least that's what his mentor told him.Five years after Watford, Simon hasn't drawn in months and is struggling to make a living freelancing. Penny taps him to work at a startup in Stratford-upon-Avon. If the project is successful, it could make both their careers.The only problem? The project is being run by his old roommate and nemesis, Baz Pitch, and funded by the Pitch family.Now Simon and Baz have to work together in close quarters to get the project out on time. Except the project may not be what it seems...
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 9
Kudos: 40





	Unfinished Work

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to my betas, [sourcherrymagiks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sourcherrymagiks) (for saying something I needed to hear) and [annabellelux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabellelux/works) (for helping me streamline and for putting me on the path to a title).

**SIMON**

I’m lying on the couch when Penny bursts in.

I’m always lying on the couch these days. I was going to work on my project; had a plan and everything. But I fell asleep after 3am last night and slept late, and after I dragged myself through a bowl of cereal and coffee I was still tired. I’m always tired, even though I can’t sleep.

Penny hurtles through the door and takes me in: trackies with holes in the knees, an oversized Watford lacrosse hoodie, socks from a week ago. I can see her considering whether to comment on my appearance. Then she shakes her head like a horse shaking off a fly, unwinding her purple scarf from around her neck.

“Simon! I have a job for you!”

I drag myself more upright, shaking my hands through my matted hair. “What?”

“A _job_ , Simon!”

“I have a job.”

“You have _gigs_ ,” she says. She looks around our apartment, eyeing the mess of sketches on our battered table, last night’s cider on the side table next to this afternoon’s. “And I don’t mind saying, it doesn’t look like this one is going very well.”

“It’s fine,” I say.

“Yeah? When’s your next deadline?”

I mutter something under my breath.

“What was that?”

“I was supposed to send them a prototype this morning,” I say, a little louder. “But it doesn’t matter. It’s an e-commerce site. It’s not as if I’m saving the world.”

Penny sits down at the end of the couch, pushing my legs aside. “Oh, Simon.”

I avoid her eyes. “It’s _fine_ , Pen. One day isn’t going to make a difference.”

“It might make a difference to _them_.”

She opens her mouth again, and I know she’s about to launch into an attempt to help. The last time I made the mistake of telling her about one of my freelance projects, I ended up with a kanban board on one wall of our living room. There were columns for “Pending,” “In Progress,” and “Done,” and I was supposed to put each task on a Post-It and move it from column to column as I progressed.

 _“How did you become a project manager, anyway?”_ I asked her.

 _“By managing_ you _, Simon,”_ she said.

And I’m grateful for her help, I really am, but I don’t feel up to it just now. “What about the job, Penny?”

“Oh!” she says, diverted. “Well, I told you about the new project we’re starting—it’s a security startup, loads of growth potential.” Did she tell me about it? I’m so tired that everything is sort of blurry sometimes. “Anyway, our designer just quit. He’s going to work at Google, can you imagine?”

I can. I was going to work for Google one day—or maybe Pixar. I had a _destiny_.

“We don’t want to pull our other designers off their projects, and there’s not a lot of time to hire someone new. So I said I might know someone.” She looks at me expectantly. I look back at her, fuzzily. I’m not keeping up.

“The someone is _you_ , Simon!” she says. “They don’t have the money to pay for an entire design team, but you could do everything they’re asking for. You’re perfect!” Then she casts a disapproving eye around the apartment, as if reconsidering. She’s been working such long hours that she hasn’t been around much. I can see her thinking that she didn’t realize it had gotten this bad. It makes me tired. I just want her to go away so that I can lie back down.

Her voice softens. “It would do you good to get out of the flat, Simon. I’m not sure freelancing is good for you.”

“I’m _fine_!” I say. It comes out louder than I mean it to. “I graduated, I’m making my own way. Not all of us have families to help us find jobs, Penelope. I don’t need your help.”

It’s harsh. I mean it to be. I want to make her go away.

But Penny just sighs and scoots closer to me on the couch. She leans into me, and I put my arm around her, and suddenly I’m glad I didn’t drive her away. Penny is hard to drive away. Maybe that’s why we’re still friends.

“What if I _want_ to help, Simon?” she says. “It’s a short-term contract to start. If you hate it, you don’t have to keep going after that. It pays well, I promise, and it’ll do wonders for your portfolio.” She bumps her shoulder against mine, gently. “Make you a deal? I’ll help you finish things up with your client—you must be close, yeah? And you come in for an interview.”

I can’t say no to Penny, even if this whole idea makes me feel like a circus lion facing down the whip and chair. Penny is extremely difficult to say no to at the best of times. And it’s kind of her not to mention the two months’ back rent I owe her.

“Fine,” I say.

“And you have to let me pick your clothes for the interview,” she adds.

“I can’t afford new clothes,” I protest. “It’s not like I have a bag of leprechaun gold lying around.”

“I’ll help you out, idiot,” she says.

Rhapsody Digital takes up the entire 11th floor of an office building in the East London tech district. I have to stop outside it for a long moment before going in. The building looms above my head, all glass and steel, and the entrance yawns like a dragon with revolving-door teeth.

Penny meets me in the reception area and immediately begins talking. “Now, she’s a bit intimidating, but don’t let that put you off—she’ll grill you, but once you’re in she’ll _destroy_ anyone who gives you trouble—”

I think she means it to be reassuring.

I sit on one of the uncomfortable waiting-room chairs with my messenger bag on the chair beside me, sketchbooks on my lap. I pulled them off the shelf at the last minute. I’m still building my design portfolio, and sometimes sketches push a waffling client over the edge, like, _He’s artistic; he can definitely handle my mobile cheque deposit app._

The woman who comes out to meet me has long white hair pulled back into a braid and fierce eyes, pale green as a cat’s. She wears a beaded red pashmina draped over an expensive-looking white blouse and tailored gray trousers. There’s an entire museum collection of necklaces around her neck, and rings glint from almost every finger.

“Simon, this is Margaret, the head of Rhapsody,” Penny says, somewhat breathlessly.

“Thank you, Penelope,” the woman says, her eyes fixed on me. Penny hesitates. The woman jerks her chin at the door, once, and Penny goes. I wonder wildly if she can teach me how to do that.

I transfer my sketchbooks to my other arm so I can shake her hand. Her fingers are warm and dry in mine, her nails red and perfectly smooth. She turns and goes through the door behind the reception desk. I follow, for lack of a better plan.

Windows occupy most of two walls of her office, but the blinds are closed and the lamps on the side tables have red shades that give off a dim and warm light. I’m mostly hoping she won’t ask me those horrible interview questions: _How many inflated balloons would fit inside the Tower of London? If a train left Leeds traveling at 70 km/hr, and another train left London…_ I’ve always been shit at logic puzzles.

She gestures at a side table, and I put down my sketchbooks, fumbling through my bag for a copy of my resume. But she waves it aside, flipping through my sketchbooks instead. I take an uneasy seat on the edge of a chair and point my eyes somewhere near the ceiling. (I’ve never been able to stand watching people look at my work.)

I hear the sound of pages turning, the whisper of her hands against sketch paper. Sometimes she pauses on a page or makes a small noise deep in her throat before moving on.

“Who is this?” she says at last. It takes me a minute to refocus my eyes; something about the dim light has sent me into a half trance.

Then I see what she’s looking at.

Fuck.

I forgot that was in there.

I forgot how often I drew Baz, back in school.

I had gone to his football match that day. (I did that, sometimes. His practices, too. Just to keep an eye on him.) I don’t think he knew I was there.

Near the end of the first half he stole the ball from an opponent and dashed up the field, a flash of purple and green and long legs, faster than anyone else on the pitch. A defender ran to meet him; he feinted, pushed the ball sideways, dodged around him. His leg, pulling back, made a beautiful arc against the green of the field. Then his foot smashed forward. The goalie made a dive, missed, and the ball whooshed into the net in the back left corner. The goalie kicked angrily at a tuft of grass and Baz smirked, just a little, at the corner of his mouth. (Fucking ruthless.)

But that wasn’t the moment I drew.

In the picture his head is thrown back, the bottle held over his head, water streaming onto his forehead and running into his hair. I captured the curve of his back, the folds of his fitted jersey stretched across his chest, the graceful line of his arm, his dark brows running down to the high arch of his nose. He’s caught between one motion and the next, as if he’s trying to break free from the page.

Margaret is waiting, I realize.

“That’s—uh—”

She raises one perfect white brow.

“That’s my roommate,” I say. “From secondary school.”

“Your roommate?” she says.

“Yeah. Baz. Basilton Grimm-Pitch.”

I get to my feet, prowl down the length of her office. I know I’m supposed to sit down, that’s how interviews work, but I can’t look at the drawing any more.

“What were you thinking, when you drew this?” she asks. She has a strangely deep voice, for a woman, colored with a Northern accent.

“What?”

She looks at me.

“Well, I was thinking he was a wanker, wasn’t I?”

Look at him, I want to say. Smug, rich tosser.

“Were you?” she says. She tilts her head, studying me.

Suddenly I think of Penny. She’s probably sitting back at her desk, worrying about me. Worrying that I’ll do something exactly like this. Less than five minutes into the interview and I’ve already lost it. My hands are twisting themselves into the cloth of my brand-new trousers.

 _Get it together, Simon,_ Penny says in my head.

I straighten up, untangle my hands. Force myself to walk back across the office and seat myself across from Margaret.

“I was thinking he was beautiful,” I say. Because it’s the truth, and I can tell it’s what she’s waiting for. “I couldn’t stand the git, honestly. But he was lovely to draw.”

“He is,” she agrees. She closes the sketchbook, firmly, and folds her hands together on top of it. All the rings on her fingers flash at me.

“Should I show you my portfolio?” I say uncertainly.

“I’ve looked at your web site,” she says, dismissively. “You’re very talented.”

“Oh. Thank you.” People have been telling me I’m talented my whole life. Talent means nothing.

“Penelope speaks very highly of you,” she says. “This is an…interesting project. Tight deadline. Big expectations.”

“I’m good under pressure,” I say. It’s true. (Or at least it used to be.) I was always at my best the night before a big show, the deadline breathing down my neck. Dr. Griffiths expecting the world of me. Baz expecting less than nothing.

I only fell apart after I graduated. With no one but Penny expecting anything of me at all.

“This is an important client,” she says. “It’s a contract position, for now. But if you do well with this job, we could hire you on full time. We always have work for talented designers. Especially ones who can handle complex projects.”

“I can do it,” I say, looking into her pale eyes.

I feel the jaws of her expectations closing around me with something like relief. This, I know how to handle.

Later that night I’m putting my sketchbooks away when my laptop pings.

It’s probably my client. I’ve been avoiding emails from them all day. (They start with _just checking in_ and escalate to _please contact us at your earliest convenience_. I hope Penny can help me straighten those out, but it’s not looking good.)

But maybe it’s Agatha. We broke up over a year ago, but we’re still friends. (Technically.) She said that things weren’t working out. ( _I_ wasn’t working out, is what I think she meant.)

I could tell her about my new job. Maybe she’d be proud of me.

But the email at the top of my inbox isn’t from Agatha.

I hesitate for a long moment, then click into the message.

_Simon,_

_I haven’t heard from you in some time. I hope that everything is well._

_Last time we spoke you were freelancing. I hope your projects are going well, and that you’re still finding time to make art. We all need to eat, of course. But I hope you won’t slip too far into the workaday world and forget._

_Remember that you have a gift. The world needs you._

_Dr. Griffiths_

It’s always my fucking gift, with him.

I don’t regret winning the contest. If I hadn’t, I would never have met Penny. But sometimes I think my life would have been simpler.

The local papers loved it.

_Art Prodigy Wins Scholarship to Prestigious Public School._

_From the Care Home to the Academy._

Me, I was just glad to get out.

Watford was going to be my ticket. My future.

I had never thought I _had_ a future. I was just drawing to stay sane. To get through it.

When I was in the art room I wasn’t getting into fights. No one was mocking me or calling me names. I was alone by choice—because all art is solitary—not because no one wanted to be with me.

I remember making it: that painting. I remember slapping paint onto the canvas, not even really sure where I was going with it. I was angry about something that had happened that day—I don’t even remember what—and the feel of the paint hitting the canvas soothed me in some deep place. You can push the paint, and the paint pushes back, and at the end you have something new.

The underpainting took shape first, all shades of blue and green. Melancholy colors. I think it was the eyes that made me realize what I was painting. Blue, like mine. Looking out of the canvas all wide and tender.

My mother.

I don’t know what she looks like, of course. I’ve never met her. I like to think she’s out there somewhere, maybe thinking of me too.

But in the painting, I made her look like me. Strong chin. Freckles. Hair a little lighter than mine—I don’t know why, except that it felt right. I added a couple of moles, just at the end.

My brushstrokes were quick, angry. Her skin was all dashes of color, a kaleidoscope of golden-pale tones that added up to love. The background swirled in a chaos of abstract greens and golds and warm browns.

And somehow when I was done I wasn’t angry anymore. I looked at the painting, and the painting looked back, and for a moment it was like she was there with me.

My art teacher thought it was the best thing she had ever seen. “Oh, Simon,” she gushed. She was the one who submitted it to the contest.

After that, things started to happen very fast.

By next September I was at Watford, firmly under Dr. Griffith’s wing.

Of course, it turns out there were bullies at Watford, too.

**BAZ**

Stratford-upon-Avon is making me think of my school days for the first time in years.

Usually I try not to think about Watford. My mother died there, after all. It wasn’t a happy time.

But today I passed someone who looked just like him.

Simon Snow.

The streets were unexpectedly busy as I walked to the office (it’s a short walk; nothing here is very far from anything else). I was mostly concentrating on who I needed to conference call into submission and whether I would stop for coffee on the way or drink the wretched stuff out of the office Keurig.

And then suddenly, out of the corner of my eye: bronze curls. Freckles dappling golden skin.

I swung around so fast I almost knocked myself over.

It wasn’t him, of course.

It’s never him.

Of all the things I try not to think about from Watford, Snow is the thing I avoid the hardest.

I know it was hopeless. (I even knew it then, most of the time.)

Snow is straight. (And a moron.) And we were roommates. And I can only imagine what my father would say. (I can only imagine it because I’m not stupid enough to tell him.)

But most importantly, we hated each other.

At least _he_ hated _me_. (With good reason, honestly.) And I thought I hated him. Until suddenly, horribly, I didn’t. But by then of course it was too late.

And then we graduated, and I went off to uni and tried to forget him as hard and as fast as I could. And I’ve been mostly successful.

Except when I see someone who looks like him. And then suddenly I’m back in my narrow school bed watching him sleep. Torturing myself. Except the torture is also somehow sweet.

The outside of Merwolf Technologies is as Shakespearean and half-timbered as everything else in this town. The inside is all glass and exposed brick and airy skylights. I wince away from the light a bit; I didn’t sleep well last night.

I pass the table tennis table (of course there’s table tennis, because God forbid this team should spend their time _writing software_.) I walk past the large-screen TV with rotating Powerpoint slides of sales pitches and corporate mission bullshit and quotes from prospective customers.

There’s a huge rendering of the Merwolf logo in brushed steel on one of the exposed brick walls: the front half of a snarling wolf, all raised hackles and exposed teeth, with a coiled fish tail. It looks as if the Starbucks mermaid got mugged on her way through the wood to Grandmother’s house. (What the fuck is a merwolf anyway? Apparently the founder’s sister came up with the name. Also, I really hope my family’s money isn’t going into vanity logo displays.)

I was too unsettled to stop for coffee after all, so I head to the tiny office kitchen first. It’s basically impossible to make software without coffee.

Nicodemus slinks up to me just as I insert one of the little pods into the machine and press the “strong” button. (Monday mornings call for strong.) He always looks like he’s slinking, even when he’s just walking around his own office. I can’t imagine what Fiona sees in him.

I mean, he’s handsome enough, I suppose, if you like that sort of thing: chin-length blond hair, slicked back, thinning a bit in the front. Razor-edge cheekbones like a bad vampire movie. He’s wearing a faintly shiny dark sport coat over a vendor T-shirt that he probably got at a conference, together with black jeans and Doc Martens. He looks like the lead singer of a punk band dressed up as an entrepreneur for Halloween.

“Mr Pitch,” he says. He always calls me that. I can’t tell if he’s mocking me.

“Nico,” I say coolly. Just because he’s fucking my aunt and running the company where I (nominally) work doesn’t mean we’re mates.

“I did some competitive research,” he says, leaning close as if he’s telling me a secret. “Security is _hot_ , Mr Pitch. There are companies in Israel doing amazing things with data visualization. I think we can find some inspiration there. Y’think your new agency can handle that?”

“Ask me after I’ve actually met them,” I say.

He laughs, as if I’ve made a clever joke. “Stop by later and I’ll show you,” he says, and slinks away again.

This project seemed so simple when Father proposed it.

“Just help get them off the ground, Basilton,” he said. “They’ve committed to launching a beta in January. The technology is solid, but I have…doubts that they’ll make the date without help.”

We were sitting on the horsehair couch in the library. He had found me there, playing my violin. I’ve spent a lot of time playing my violin since my graduation. I didn’t have much time before then, with school projects and exams and my internship, but I was also hoping it would help me think. Figure out what to do next.

It turns out my father had been thinking about that too.

“The truth is, it would be a great help to me,” he said. “I’ve made a…large investment in this company. Fiona swears it will bring significant returns, but your aunt’s judgement is sometimes…” He sighed.

My father runs a venture capital firm in London. His company funds startups—mostly in technology and biotech—but from time to time he invests his own money in companies that are too small or too early-stage to qualify for VC funding. At Fiona’s urging, he gave Merwolf a significant amount of seed capital. He wouldn’t have done it if he didn’t believe it would pay, but my father rarely does anything for only one reason.

In this particular instance, I suspect one of his reasons was to give me something to do. And possibly to get me out of London. I was quiet about my few brief relationships at uni, and then later, in business school, but my father knows all of the professors. He hears things.

“What would you need me to do?” I asked.

“Nicodemus has good ideas, but he has no idea how to run a development team or develop an actual product strategy.”

“And I do?”

“You have the education for it. And the intelligence. Unofficially, you would also be my liaison. I trust you to be my eyes and ears on the ground.”

And there they were: the magic words. _I trust you._

“Why Stratford-on-fucking-Avon?” I asked my father over dinner that night. I love Shakespeare, but actually living in Shakespearetown might be a bridge too far.

“Language, Basil,” Daphne said reprovingly, flicking her eyes towards the children.

I sighed. “Apologies, Mother. But the question stands. Why not London or Cambridge or Brighton or literally anywhere else?”

“The founder’s sister does something for the RSC, I believe,” my father said, spearing a piece of meat with his fork.

“It’s a lovely town,” Daphne said, guiding some mashed-up orange substance into the baby’s mouth. My stepmother is the COO for my father’s firm. She’s the pragmatic one, keeping everything running smoothly.

“It will do you good to get out of London for a time,” my father said mildly, and I heard what he was really saying: _Perhaps hard work and the waters of the Avon will wash the gay away._ Not bloody likely, and Father knows it, but hope springs eternal.

So far I’m no less queer, but I am significantly more frustrated. In several different ways.

I’d like nothing better than to hide out in my office. Only Nico and I actually have offices, although I suspect mine of being hastily retrofitted from a closet once my father nominated me for this role. (There’s a joke there. Not a very funny one.) But I’m better off than the peons, who work elbow to elbow at high tables with brushed steel stools that look better than they probably feel.

But I can’t hide in my office. Software development, it turns out, requires a regrettable amount of talking to other humans.

Luckily, two of those humans are Dev and Niall, both of whom are waiting for me in my office.

“Gentlemen,” I say.

“Baz,” Niall says. Somehow the three of us have stayed friends since Watford (Dev is also my cousin, but that doesn’t mean we’re also obligated to be friends). I’m lucky to have them. Dev just wrapped a long-term contract; Niall was miserable working for a tech giant and happy enough to quit.

I take a long pull of my coffee. “What happened to you?” I say to Dev. He has his eyes half-closed, as if the light hurts his eyes, and he has the muzzy and unstable look of someone with an impressive hangover.

Niall closes the office door (gently, mindful of Dev’s head) and presses a mug of coffee into his hands.

“Hot date,” Dev says, taking a hit of coffee. “You ought to try it.”

“Who has the time?” I say, sliding my laptop into the docking station and hitting the power button.

“Dev, obviously,” says Niall.

“So. Worth. It,” Dev says.

“You’d better be awake and sober by 10,” I say, kicking his foot. “I need my software architect for the agency meeting.”

“That meeting’s all you, mate. But I’m happy to sit there and look pretty.”

“You just _think_ you’re pretty,” says Niall.

“Baz is pretty,” says Dev. “It runs in the family.”

“Not your side, obviously.”

“Fuck,” I say, skimming my email. “The demo server is down again.”

“Who cares?” Dev says, his eyes still closed. “There’s nothing to demo.”

“ _I_ care,” I say, “since I’d like to show what we have to the agency people.”

“We don’t have anything yet.”

“Why are you arguing?” I say. “Just be a good lad and go and check for me.”

Dev sighs and slouches out of the office. Niall stands to follow him, then pauses.

“You really _should_ try it,” he says.

I’m already poring through my emails (they tend to build up over the weekend), barely paying attention. “Try what?”

“Dating,” Niall says.

“I date,” I protest, sending an outbreak of auto-generated Jira emails to the trash.

“When, exactly?”

“Before,” I say. “School.”

“Exactly my point,” Niall says. He hesitates. “Your father isn’t here, Baz.”

“What do you mean?” I say, looking up.

“You know what I mean,” he says.

Back at Watford I used to hide my queerness. I’m still not out, exactly—that would require talking to my family, and I’m not ready for that—but my close friends know. But we rarely talk about it.

“Don’t you have something to test?” I say pointedly, cutting my eyes towards the door.

“No, I _don’t_ ,” Niall says. “That’s the whole problem, actually.”

I sigh. “I’m working on it.”

By the time the agency people arrive I’m better caffeinated, at least.

When I arrived in Stratford-on-Avon I took one look at the Merwolf development team and realized that we were on the fast track to humiliation and failure. Dev and Niall were a good start, but not enough. I phoned my father and told him that we needed to bring on contractors, stat.

Rhapsody Digital has a glowing reputation in the startup world and, even better, they were able to put together a small team on short notice. I hope their designer is a fucking unicorn. We can have the best technology in the universe, but if our software is unusable or doesn’t demo well we’re screwed. I’m already planning to lock myself in a room with the designer for a week.

I finish fielding a string of Slack messages from Nico (more links to fucking Israeli security companies) and head to the conference room.

Just inside the door I stop so quickly that I almost stumble.

“ _Bunce?_ ”

She freezes, half out of her seat. She looks older than the last time I saw her; she’s still all rounded curves, but her face has lost its girlishness. She’s wearing a blouse, a knee-length skirt with kick pleats, and flats; there’s a scarf in many shades of purple wound around her neck. Same witchy glasses and ponytail, though.

“ _Baz Pitch?_ ” she says.

Nico is looking between us, delighted. “You know each other?”

“We went to school together. What are you doing here?” I say to her.

“I’m with Rhapsody,” she says. She looks dazed. “I’m the scrum master.” She’s looking over my shoulder, I’m not sure why. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“I’m the product manager,” I say.

I want to drag her off to my office and slam the door behind us and ask her a thousand questions: _How’s Snow?_ and _Does he ever talk about me?_ and _Is he still straight?_ (The last one is stupid; of course he’s still straight.)

She’s still looking into the air a bit above my shoulder; it’s annoying. I turn to see what she’s looking at.

Simon Snow is standing in the doorway.

His hair is longer than I remember, tumbling around his face in loose reddish-brown curls. His skin is pasty under the fluorescent lights, as if he isn’t getting enough sun. (Apparently I still have every shade of Snow’s skin memorized, even after all these years.) He looks older too; his face has filled out, and there are more lines around those blue eyes.

He’s wearing a button down shirt and dark trousers and shoes that look so new they must hurt his feet. He’s holding a paper cup of coffee in one hand, staring back at me with wide eyes. Those blue eyes hit me like a physical shock.

Forget Bunce; I want to drag Snow to my office and push him up against the door and pop every one of those buttons—

Dammit. I was over him. I really thought I was.

“ _Baz?_ ” he says.

My hands are shaking so hard that the hot coffee sloshes over the edge of the mug. I hiss as it burns my hand. One of the Rhapsody people—a woman—plucks the cup out of my hand and hands me a stack of paper towels.

“Excuse me,” I say. I brush past Snow in the doorway—so close I can feel the heat from his body—and flee to the bathroom.

**SIMON**

That was _Baz_.

Tyrannus Basilton fucking Grimm-Pitch.

Of all of the things I wasn’t ready for—

I always thought he would be in London by now, or maybe Paris. Running the world.

Not here in fucking Stratford-upon-Avon in _my_ project. The one that was going to get my career back on track.

Back at school, I knew to keep my guard up. I would take deep breaths before I walked into class, building up my armor.

My armor is shit these days.

And then I walked into the conference room and he was there—

It was just like him, really. Sneaking in where he wasn’t wanted. Proving that everything, _everything_ belonged to him all along.

It was as if the knife bypassed the armor entirely and slid right into my gut.

It’s not fair. He was always going to be fine. People like him always are. I’m the one who—

He doesn’t need this like I do.

He left before I could get a good look at him. (Spilling coffee over himself isn’t like him. The Baz I remember was poised. Fastidious. Always so fucking graceful.) All I saw was inkblot hair, shocked eyes the color of the Thames on an overcast day, dark lashes against amber skin.

Fuck.

I realize I’m still standing in the doorway. I could really use Penny right now, but she left just after—she must have needed the loo.

I can’t sit down, anyway. Adrenaline is shooting electric through all my limbs. That was _Baz_ —

I stalk to the other end of the conference room. There’s a window there, looking out over the narrow street below. I lean my forehead against one of the little panes of glass; the cold is soothing on my flushed skin.

My fingers are twitching, aching for a pencil. I would draw him, right now, pressing hard on the lead to block in his hair. I would try to capture the look in his eyes when he first saw me, and then I could look at the drawing and try to make sense of it—

Baz has always made more sense in black and white.

The drawings started as margin doodles, mean little caricatures that I would pass to Penny in class to make her laugh. They made me feel as if I was getting the better of him, just a little, even though I could never think of the right thing to say when we sparred in real life.

Later I drew him because I wanted to pin him to the page, like an insect in a collection. Like that poem they made us read in school: _I will put chaos into fourteen lines._

Except it didn’t work. No matter how many lines I drew, Baz never stayed contained.

**BAZ**

I’m in the washroom splashing water over my face when I hear the door open and close. I’m not paying attention; there’s a buzz in my ears as if there are bees trapped in my skull, and I keep trying to reassemble my thoughts only to have them fracture back into rubble.

Penelope Bunce appears in the mirror over my shoulder like something out of a horror movie. I jump a foot in the air and splash water down my front, which is going to look _lovely_ when we go back to the conference room.

“You can’t be in here!” I protest. “This is the men’s toilets!”

Bunce casts a disdainful look over her shoulder at the stalls. They’re all empty.

She leans close to me. In the mirror I can see her lips move, close to my ear.

“Pitch,” she says. “If you hurt Simon, I will kill you so hard that future generations will still be looking for the pieces. I will rip you into tiny bits and feed you to the crows. I will—”

“I’m not going to hurt Snow,” I interrupt her. It sounds like she might go on for a bit, otherwise.

“Really?” she says. “Because you hurt him all the time at school, and I don’t see any reason why you should have changed.”

Because I love him, I think. But that never helped before. It might even have made it worse.

“Simon needs this job,” she continues, fiercely. “He’s going through a rough patch. If you make it worse, so help me God—”

“I’m not going to hurt Simon Snow,” I say again, louder. “I need him, don’t I?” I realized it a moment ago, splashing water on my face: Simon Snow is my designer, because of course he is. And even if I could explain the situation to Nicodemus and my father (“we’re mortal enemies, and also I want to slip him the tongue, so may I please have a different designer?”) there’s no time to find someone else good.

And say what you will about him—Simon Snow is talented.

“Good,” Bunce says. “Because I need this job too, and I care about my reputation, but I care about Simon a lot more. I will _burn it to the ground_ , Pitch.”

I straighten up, meet her eyes in the mirror, pull my cuffs straight. “Bunce,” I say. “Do you always begin your jobs by threatening your contact in the toilets?”

“Only when the contact is our archnemesis,” she says, watching me with narrowed eyes.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” I say. “This is software. It’s not as if the fate of the world hangs in the balance.”

“Don’t fuck this up,” Bunce says, staring me down. Then she flounces out of the room, letting the door bang closed behind her.

**SIMON**

I’m fidgeting, my hands twisting together into knots. I’m only just holding myself back from pacing. It’s too hot in here; I pull at the collar of my shirt, opening another button.

Two of the Merwolf people are staring at me. I stare back belligerently (which I don’t think is the way you’re supposed to treat your new coworkers, but this whole thing has already gone sideways.)

“Simon Snow?” one of them says, sneering. It’s the sneer that makes me recognize him. He looks a bit like Baz, if a sculptor took the materials left over from Baz and made a slightly shabbier copy.

“Dev Grimm,” I say, pushing out my chin.

“Aren’t you living the dream,” Dev says, looking me up and down. I flush a bit. My clothes feel even cheaper with his eyes on me.

“It’s a living,” I say.

“What are you doing here?” says the other one. I remember him from Watford too—shorter than Dev, slightly built, with muddy brown eyes and freckles.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” I say.

“Making trouble,” says Dev. “Not famous yet, then?”

“Working on it,” I say.

“You were always Griffiths’ favorite,” he says, shaking his head. “Was never clear on why.”

“You were the other option?” I suggest. He flushes, taking a step towards me.

Just then Penny comes back in. After her comes Baz.

He’s changed his shirt, I’m not sure why. To paint it, I’d start with alizarin crimson and mix in indigo until I ended with the color of a sunset sky shading into twilight. It looks soft and expensive, with a bit of a sheen. He’s unbuttoned the top few buttons and rolled the cuffs up to his elbows.

His hair is longer, brushing his shoulders in gentle waves. It’s the only gentle thing about him; the rest is all lean angles and pointed words.

He takes his place at the head of the table and crosses his arms. We’re almost directly across from each other now; he looks down the length of the table, meets my eyes for a long moment, and gives me a single nod.

Penny is trying to catch my eye; she flicks her eyes towards my seat, and I remember I’m still standing. I slide into my seat, and immediately my leg starts jiggling. Back in school Penny used to make me these contraptions of twisted pipe cleaners so I’d have something to do with my hands in class. I wish I had one now.

Baz leans forward, putting both hands on the table. His shirt gapes open a bit at the neck. “Apologies for the delay. Shall we get started?”

I have trouble paying attention in meetings at the best of times, but it’s impossible to concentrate with Baz standing less than ten feet away. We go around the table for introductions, then Nicodemus does an endless Powerpoint presentation on the vision for the product (I miss most of it, but there are a lot of words like “sexy” and “innovative” and “Apple”). Then Baz stands up again and walks through what they’ve built so far. I watch his long fingers moving the mouse and feel like I’m going to explode.

The adrenaline is still surging through me, looking for somewhere to go, and it all feels so much like being back in class that I’m waiting for the sarcasm, the insults. The Baz from school was a master of the cutting remark that sounded just enough like a compliment to keep him out of trouble.

But nothing happens. He hardly even looks my way.

My fingernails are carving pale crescents into my palms and I can feel the heat moving up my chest and into my face. It’s too hot in here; I keep loosening my collar. My leg jiggles until Penny puts her foot over mine under the table.

I know she must be disturbed as well, but she doesn’t let it stop her. She asks incisive questions, steamrolls anyone who tries to talk over her. Once she grabs the whiteboard marker from Dev and annotates his architecture drawing in tiny, precise handwriting, arguing over which way the arrows should point.

Nicodemus orders in lunch and we go straight through. I eat three sandwiches and two bags of crisps (I nick Penny’s) and at least three brownies (I lost track.) I really wish I had a cider, but instead everyone drinks endless cups of black coffee. Penny types reams of notes into her laptop, capturing timelines and responsibilities and action items (some of them are probably for me, but I can’t be fussed about that right now.)

I should be taking notes too—paying better attention—but my mind is a broken stained glass window, all shards of color that don’t add up to a picture. I doodle in the margins of my Moleskine until I realize I’ve drawn a pair of narrowed eyes fringed in dark lashes. After that I put the pen down.

Finally it’s over.

Baz packs up his laptop and iPad and the little pointer thingy he used to control his slides, talking quietly to Niall. He hasn’t so much as looked in my direction for hours, and it’s making me mental.

All around me everyone else is packing up too. The Rhapsody contractors are asking the Merwolf team about local pubs. They’re going out; it’s billable, after all. I could go with them, get a cider or three. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together for the next few months. I should get to know them.

My laptop and notepad are in my messenger bag, and I don’t have anything to do with my hands. Penny looks over at me. “Ready, Simon?”

“In a minute,” I mumble.

I push my way through the chattering people and grab Baz by the arm.

“We need to talk,” I say.

**BAZ**

Snow practically drags me out of the conference room. He’s still shorter than me, but solid as a bull.

He’s barely said a word all day. I’ve been watching him out of the corner of my eye, watching the red creep out of his collar and up his neck. I recognize this look from school. I used to feed it, pushing him bit by bit until he fell over the edge. It used to feel good, to know that I had that little bit of control over him.

But even if Bunce hadn’t cornered me, I can see for myself that Snow is in a bad way. His hair looks like it hasn’t been cut in too long, and the skin around his eyes looks red and puffy, the sockets shadowed. He looks like he hasn’t been sleeping. I wish I could pillow his head on my lap, twine my fingers through those curls, soothe him into sleep.

But it doesn’t do me any good to want.

Snow tows me out into the common area and stalls out; he doesn’t know the layout.

I extract my arm from his grip. “Come on, Snow,” I say, and lead him to my office.

I expect him to be on me as soon as the door closes. He has that look he used to get just before a fight. I’d have to fire him if he punched me (and wouldn’t that just solve all our problems?)

But instead he picks a pen from the edge of my desk and fidgets with it, looking anywhere but at me.

I go and sit in my chair, because I feel better with a desk between me and Simon Snow. I lean back and put my feet up on the desk. The sight of my shoes makes me feel marginally better (Berluti; Italian leather; lovely).

His eyes jerk up to me, then skitter away. “Baz,” he says. “You’re—you’re wearing jeans.”

Of course I am. It took me less than an hour on my first day to realize that my suit was the equivalent of a red flashing arrow over my head saying “investor’s son.” Everyone else wears jeans and T-shirts and fucking cargo shorts and trainers and sandals.

They’re expensive jeans, though. (I have standards.)

“And you’re wearing plaid,” I say, inclining my head.

He flushes even brighter red, if that were possible, and mumbles something under his breath that sounds like “Penny.”

“You wanted to talk?” I prompt, because he seems to be having difficulty finding words.

“Baz,” he says, as if trying out the sound of my name. Then he stops.

“All right, good talk,” I say, taking my feet off the desk and making to stand.

“No!” he says.

“Use your words,” I say encouragingly, and he flushes.

“Just—are we going to be able to do this?” he says.

“What is _this?_ ” I say.

“This. Working together.”

“I hardly think six months on a software project should be a problem. We lived in the same room. We had classes together.”

“And you hated me the entire time!” he bursts out.

“Well,” I say. There isn’t much more I can say to that. “I don’t think we have a choice, do you? Unless you want to leave the project?”

“I turned down freelance gigs to do this,” he says. “I—” He hesitates. “I need the work. Not that you would know what that’s like.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“Well, you’re rich. Couldn’t you just go back to your—I dunno, your estate? And lounge around on your family’s money?”

I could, I think. And my father would lose the little respect he has for me. And I would probably marry some beautiful heiress and pretend for the rest of my life. I don’t know what I want, but it isn’t that.

“As it happens, I need this job too,” I say. “So, no.” I cross my arms, adding an additional barrier between us. “This is hardly what I planned either,” I say.

“Isn’t it?” he says.

He must think I pored through stacks of resumes, just looking for the opportunity to do the maximum damage. As if the most important thing on my mind right now is my idiot ex-roommate. (Even if he is standing right there, messy curls falling over one blue eye.) The thought makes me angry.

“No!” I snarl. “I know this is hard for you to believe, Snow, but not everything is about you.”

“Good!” he snarls back, and I want to laugh. But his eyes are blazing, banishing his fuzzy look, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe.

“Why would I think of you at all?” I say, turning away. I pull my laptop out of my bag and busy myself with sliding it into the docking station.

“Well,” he says. “Good.”

He stands there, looking uncertain. “So—truce, then?”

“Truce,” I say.

“You won’t mock me or sabotage my work or—or get your mates to gang up on me.”

“Fine. And you won’t make me look bad in front of my team. Or punch me.”

“Good,” he says.

“Until the project is over,” I say, and he nods.

He just stands there, twisting the pen between his fingers.

“I want your word on it,” he says.

“My word as a gentleman?” I say, laughing. “Fine, Snow. Shake on it.” I extend my hand across the desk, and he takes it. His hand is hot in mine, as if the flush in his face has moved down to his extremities. For a moment—less than a moment—I think about pulling on his hand, pushing him down onto the desk, kissing that look off his face. (He would probably kill me, and I would have to fire myself for sexual harassment, but it would be worth it.)

Then he takes his hand back, as if he wants to touch me as little as possible, and just stands there.

“Well, bye then,” he says, turning for the door.

“Goodbye, Snow,” I say.

**SIMON**

Penny is waiting for me in the lobby, her bag over her shoulder.

“What was _that_ about?” she says, eying me.

“I had to talk to Baz,” I say, falling in with her as she turns for the door.

“That’s new. Is he still alive?”

“Give me some credit, Penelope,” I say. The cold outside air feels good on my face. The wind pushes down the feverish feeling I’ve had all day. I turn my face into it and set off towards our flat at a brisk walk. Penny scrambles to keep up. “We made a truce.”

“A truce?”

“Yeah, for the project. Not to make trouble for each other.”

“Simon, you and Baz _always_ make trouble for each other.”

“Not this time,” I say. “I need this to go well, Pen. And so does he, for some reason.”

“Well, you are the only designer. I suppose he can’t afford to antagonize you. For once.”

“He could just…ignore me,” I say. I’ve had clients who think design is irrelevant, or at best window dressing.

“I don’t think he can,” Penny says. “Did you see his demo?”

I scrunch up my face, debating whether I can get away with lying. Penny sighs. “I didn’t think so,” she says. “I’ll catch you up tomorrow over breakfast. But the important thing is, they have algorithms and back end and API and nothing else.”

“I don’t know what any of those words mean, but this is good for me?”

“You’re going to have to learn, Simon,” she says. “This is software development, with a team. It’s different than freelancing.”

“You could have warned me—”

“I believe in you, Simon,” she says. “You’re not stupid, no matter what Baz says. Just—I recommended you, okay? Just try.”

“I will,” I say.

“I know you will,” she says firmly. We pass the Royal Shakespeare Theater and make our way down the groomed pathways of Bancroft Gardens. We’re almost to Bridge Street when she speaks again.

“What I meant is that they’ve worked on the technology—the secret sauce. It’s crucial, but essentially invisible. The parts that people will actually see and touch? None of that exists. And they can’t do that without you.”

“So what you’re saying is, if I screw this up it will ruin the whole project? For you and Baz and everyone else?”

“Don’t get any ideas, Simon.”

“Penny! No. I wouldn’t do that, even if it would hurt Baz. It’s just—”

“No pressure,” Penny says.

“No pressure,” I say.

We got lucky with our flat (or Penny blackmailed someone, I wouldn’t put it past her.) We’re living on the third floor of a little building set on a side street that branches off the bridge. It’s tiny, just two small bedrooms and a living room and a kitchen that we can barely both stand in at the same time. But the canal that joins the River Avon runs just behind the building, so when we open our windows we can hear the sounds of ducks quacking and the occasional boat or cycle gliding by.

Penny sheds her coat in the little entryway. “I’m knackered,” she says. “Going to the pub?” I already know Penny won’t; she doesn’t believe in what she calls “extraneous socializing.”

“Maybe later,” I say. “I’m going for a run.”

“Simon!” Penny says, her eyes wide. I used to run all the time at Watford, winding my way down the tiny goat trails in the hills behind the school. But I haven’t run since—I don’t even remember the last time.

But the restless energy is still surging through my body, and I feel like I might explode if I don’t keep moving. My mind is always perfectly, gloriously clear when I run. It’s as if all the thoughts that usually plague me can’t keep pace. I used to come back from my runs feeling wiped clean. Pure.

So I put on my trainers and a beat-up pair of trackies and set out along the canal path. At first my feet striking the pavement sound like they’re saying _Baz. Baz. Baz._

And then they stop saying anything at all, and my mind is blissfully quiet.

I come back an hour later covered in sweat and aching in every part of me that hasn’t moved in too long. But my limbs feel loose and relaxed and I’m not thinking about anything.

I stay upright only long enough to plug my phone into its charger and put on a pair of pyjamas.

It isn’t until I’m lying in my uncomfortable bed, my eyes drifting closed, that I remember that I never went to the pub. And I haven’t had a cider all day.

I roll over and tuck my knees up into my chest and fall into deep, quiet sleep.

**NICODEMUS**

Little shit thinks he’s so much better than me.

Strutting around the office like he owns the place, bringing in his own team, giving orders. Just because Daddy holds the purse strings.

He’s useful for now, mind. He keeps Daddy distracted, and he’s handling the day to day so I can keep my eyes on the vision.

And he’s important to Fi. I’ve got to be careful there. Fiona is something, when she’s angry. It can be fun sometimes, riding out her anger, but I can’t push her too far.

I thump my boots up onto my desk and lean my chair back, pulling my laptop towards me. Time to do some more research.

Then the phone buzzes in my pocket. I bring it up to my ear.

“Yeah?”

“Nicodemus,” says the voice on the other end. I recognize the voice: smooth, confident, with that nasally American twang. I sit up.

“Speaking,” I say. “What can I help you with, sir?”

It kills me, calling this git “sir.” He’s younger than me by a good bit. Not much older than young master Pitch. But he’s our most important customer—potential customer—so it pays to play nice.

“We have a problem,” he says.

“Whatever it is, I’m sure we—”

“Not with you, Nico.” He cuts me off. “Internally. How soon will your beta be ready?”

“We’re tracking against our roadmap,” I say. “We’ve brought in additional resources, and it’s all hands on deck—”

“Cut the crap,” he says. “How soon, Nico?”

“February,” I say.

“That’s too late,” he says. “We think there’s someone working against us. An insider. They could go to the press anytime.”

“We might be able to install the agent sooner,” I say. “It could start collecting data. But there may be bugs. And we won’t have graphs and reports—”

“Fuck the reports,” he says. “Get me the data.”

“Let me see what I can do,” I say. “I can send someone over as soon as we have something.”

“Send them to the UK office,” he says. “We think the problem is over there. Tell me when you’re coming. I’ll fly in.”

“We’ll have to work out the terms of payment—”

“Are you really going to dick with me about money?” he says. His voice is impatient. “Send me a fucking bill. But get me the software.”

“Understood,” I say. “And thank you for your business, Braden.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: Simon and Penny live in my friend's (former) apartment in Stratford-upon-Avon. (Yes, I did set this in almost the only place in England I've actually been. But hey, Shakespeare!)


End file.
